Piranha: Firing Point

“How the hell do you do. Okay, I’ll just get right to it, then, gentlemen. On October 23 six Japanese Rising Sun-class submarines went on sea trials—” “I know all about that,” Pacino said. “I know Tanaka at the MSDF.”

“So you know why they sank?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Daniels sniffed, blowing his nose into a handkerchief.

“Sorry, that’s why I didn’t shake hands. I’m going under to this goddamned cold. Yeah, all six subs were in a videoconference with your man Tanaka when they sank.

I’ve got it all on disk.” He put the handkerchief away and tossed a disk at Pacino, who caught it in midair.

A half dozen questions vied for attention in Pacino’s mind.

“Why wasn’t I briefed on this?” he asked.

“Jesus, why wasn’t he briefed on it. Where were you on October 24? When Kathy tried to schedule you for that urgent secure videoconference?”

Pacino bit his lip. He’d skipped it, saying he was too busy at the shipyard, taking a meeting with Colleen O’Shaughnessy instead as the Cyclops system bugs grew worse. Fine, he thought to himself angrily. That was then, this is now.

“I’ll tell you where you were. You blew it off. Just like you blew off my messages. So what’s your next question?”

Pacino shot a glance at White, who shrugged.

“Okay, next is how you got the video disk. Tanaka?” “No,” Daniels said. “We’re the NSA, remember? We intercept, record, and decode transmissions? Hello?” “I read you,” Pacino said, wondering when Daniels would drop the attitude.

“Okay, so what happened on the disks?” Paully asked.

“They just disappeared one by one. This was after their sea trials. Dick thought that was significant. They vanished at periscope depth. Dick also thought that was significant. Said I should get with you immediately.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Aside from my secure videolink and the eighteen call requests?”

“You could have gotten with David Kane or Paully White, or Kathy, for that matter.”

“Could have. Didn’t. Donchez was too sick to talk.

Don’t know if you knew that. I was helping him run the show at the time, and he refused to go to a hospital, refused to leave his office. He kept telling me you’d call us, but you never did, and hell, I was just a slight bit busy with this Red Chinese stuff.”

“The Reds. Did we have any warning?”

“Sorry. Can’t tell you. You’re not cleared.”

“Donchez would have told me,” Pacino offered. Obviously Daniels was struggling with himself, as if following orders he didn’t agree with.

“Okay. We had lots of comms. We were breaking them almost in real time. We knew about the mobilization of troops, moving the aircraft around. Three days before the invasion the PLA pretty much went offline.

They shut up completely. It was scary. Nothing, not even orders back to Beijing for more toilet paper.”

“Were you jammed?”

“Nope. There were just no tactical communications.

Nothing but entertainment television, computer network transmissions — again, entertainment, all White Chinese— and radio talk shows and rock’n’ roll. Then on Sunday, bang.”

“They had a prearranged operational order,” Pacino said.

“Exactly, Admiral,” Daniels said, a false smile curling across his face. “Donchez said you were smart, but he never said you had a flair for the obvious like this.”

Pacino frowned, ready to launch into the agency director when the younger man stood.

“Well, I’ve done my duty for today. Donchez said you’d need to know this stuff. Now you do. And here’s my card.” Daniels produced a business card, the electronic scan strip on the back ready for the receiver to insert into his Writepad. “If you need me, just call. I’m sure by the eighteenth or nineteenth message I may call you back.”

The door slammed behind him.

“Nice guy,” White said.

“Pissed-off guy,” Pacino replied. “Get the file on him.”

“Already on it,” White said, scanning through his Writepad. “Not much here. Mason W. Daniels IV, Princeton grad, class of ‘01, English major. Harvard Law, Law Review, graduated ‘04, initial service in the National Security Agency, special deputy to the director.”

“Who was the director then?”

“General Mason W. Daniels III.” White looked up.

“Jesus, he’s Mason Daniels’ son.”

“Wow,” Pacino said. General Mason Daniels, Donchez’s predecessor, was a legend in the intelligence community, having saved the NSA from the razor of intelligence consolidation, and being credited with numerous intelligence coups, such as the initial warning on the Chinese Civil War.

“Now what, sir?”

“Get Kathy back, and put that disk in.”

JACKSON HOLE, WYOMING

TETON VILLAGE

PRESIDENTIAL COMPOUND

The eight black Land Rovers crunched through the packed snow at the rear entrance to Wamer’s ski lodge.